


Human And Better Than You

by Waysm



Series: Building Callouses [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waysm/pseuds/Waysm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s because he’s always reading Stiles’ hands that Danny notices that they’re trembling. The only part of Stiles that is.</p><p>He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he hits the lever to signal a right, exits the highway for the Interstate and gains 20 miles in speed as he merges with traffic.</p><p>Stiles doesn’t look at him, doesn’t open his mouth, or otherwise acknowledge their new status as runaways.</p><p>But his hands stop vibrating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human And Better Than You

Midmorning sun caresses the hood of his car, curves over the windshield and into his eyes as he drives. Its softness keeps the light from being distracting, the beams winking around clusters of trees and tall houses. His headache eases as the miles tick by under the car’s tires. His lips pull into a smile. Even without a destination in mind he feels like there’s a purpose to his decisions when he drives. As if he knows what he’s doing with his responsibilities, with his direction. He understands it’s an illusion but it’s one that doesn’t bother him because of the peace it gifts. Though it does bother him how the illusion works. He’s fairly certain it’s founded on the simple fact that he’s never hurt anyone while driving. It’s a troublesome thread to pick at.

A last second choice at a four-way stop takes him back into a Beacon Hills’ residential area.

Here, the streets are a bit more crowded, a bit more homely in appearance. Not the sleek and modern renditions of century old designs that plague his neighbor, where everyone attempts to reinvent the classics. There’s honesty built into the houses on this street. His favorite is the Sheriff’s place. Only part of it has to do with the associative authority the house possesses. Approaching the section of road the Sheriff commands, Danny runs his gaze over the property.

Someone is in the driveway.

Danny’s bringing his car to the curb before the decision fully forms. Tires bouncing against concrete, he cuts the engine, slides out the door and walks to where Stiles is currently cursing at his Jeep. The vehicle seems to mock Stiles, sitting unmoving in the Stilinski driveway while its owner pours out a litany of half-formed swears and convoluted complaints.

As he approaches Danny’s tempted to let his face show his amusement but the closer he gets the easier it is to see the lack of energy that typically outlines Stiles’ movements. The kid smacks a hand against the Jeep’s hood. Long fingers arc over the metal in a stroke that reflects as a flash of guilt in pressed thin lips.

Humor bleeds out of the scene.

Danny refrains from examining why it feels like a physical loss.

He clears his throat—eyes going wider when Stiles whips around—and says, “Need a hand?”

The stare he gets in return is too open, too exposed. It shuts down quick though, snapping behind a smirk and thrown wide arms. “Nope, just enjoying a little quality time with my girl. Sometimes she needs persuasion, no big deal.”

Danny nods.

Waits.

“Of course, if you were to offer me a ride I wouldn’t refuse, I do have places to be, things to do, people to shout at.” There’s a vague gesture that’s meant to convey a message. Danny can’t decode it. He nods again. Watches the cutting actions of Stiles’ hands as the kid finishes with a sharp gust of, “That sort of thing.”

“I can give you a ride.” He figures concise is best for the moment. Turning around he walks back to his car without checking if Stiles is following or not. It’s a moment before the man does, jerking the passenger door open too fast and falling downward into the leather seat. Danny arches an eyebrow, lets it drop into a frown when Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls on his seat belt as directed.

He considers warning Stiles against further displays of attitude. He says, “Where do you need to go?”

“Out to the Hale place.”

“Wait, what? Why do you need to go out there?”

A response isn’t forthcoming and the lack is worrisome. If there is anything that Stiles is good at, it’s lying. He’s never without an explanation or a distracting amount of word vomit. Unwilling to watch as Stiles works his mouth into a semblance of nonchalance Danny shifts into Drive.

As he maneuvers through town it’s tempting to grill Stiles about Scott’s absence from his side, about the increasingly disturbing conversations the two have in Chemistry, in the locker room. He also wants to ask about Jackson and Lydia—neither of whom talk to him anymore, the latter never having the habit of confiding in him and the former clammed up even under the assault of Danny’s nastiest tactics of guilt trips and bluntness—it’s all very tempting to poke at, to see what he can get out of Stiles while the guy is obviously chafed.

But—

Danny isn’t stupid.

There’s always been something lurking on the edges of Stiles’ energetic, sporadically focused nature, something raw and vulnerable, and it’s gotten worse since the start of sophomore year. He’s pretty sure it’s connected to Derek Hale.

Stiles’ destination, though unexpected, isn’t surprising.

He figured out months ago that “Cousin Miguel” is actually Hale and that the man’s constant ghost of a presence isn’t a positive aspect of Stiles’, or probably Scott’s, life. That the man features in the two’s Chemistry conversations strengthens his suspicions.

And yet, he’s kept his mouth shut. It isn’t his business and he’s inclined to maintain his distance and leave the _haoles_ to their worries.

Except…

Danny eyes the scrape on the ridge of Stiles’ sunken cheek. It’s healing at a decent rate though it’s still an angry red, similar to the edges of Stiles’ eyes.

Exiting the city limits, Danny realizes that Stiles hasn’t moved since they left his house. There’s a sense of withdrawal, Stiles going stiller the closer to the Hale property that they get. Danny’s mind nags that self-containment isn’t the kid’s strong suit. Isn’t nearing normal.

Awareness seeps into his skin, lights his nerves to the tension radiating throughout the cab. Its weight bores into Danny’s bones until he feels like running. Like throwing the car into the shoulder of the road and fleeing, sprinting back into town as if the Devil himself is on his heels. It’s an unsettling energy that demands to be burned out before it can overwhelm. The fact that Stiles is projecting it is more disconcerting than his own empathy absorbing the instinctive desire toward flight.

It’s because he’s always reading Stiles’ hands that Danny notices that they’re trembling. The only part of Stiles that is.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he hits the lever to signal a right, exits the highway for the Interstate and gains 20 miles in speed as he merges with traffic.

Stiles doesn’t look at him, doesn’t open his mouth, or otherwise acknowledge their new status as runaways.

But his hands stop vibrating.

 

* * *

 

It’s noon when they stop for gas.

Stiles stays in the car, shouts after him about donuts and a cherry slushie, the second one a request that Danny is going to ignore. There’s no way he’s letting Stiles have a sticky drink in his car. Not when the guy’s still edgy.

Instead, as the tank’s filling, Danny grabs a pack of juice boxes, all vivid designs of animals and fruit—why advertising companies believe the combination is appealing he’s never attempted to analyze, though if he were to let it the oddity would bother him—and a box of day-old glazed donuts. Left in the stale air, the glaze isn’t too fluid or too cracked, so Danny figures his leather seats should survive Stiles brand enthusiasm.

As he walks back to the pump he scrolls through his text messages.

There’s nothing new.

Setting the purchases on the hood of his car, Danny begins typing—swipes the letters away.

Stares at his phone.

He wonders if his last attempt at directness was too much. If for once Jackson remembered the Hawaiian that Danny’d taught him and decided veiled insults weren’t reason to start talking. Hurting Jackson wasn’t the plan but there was only so much snubbing and verbal injury Danny could take. Even though both were a solid aspect of their friendship, he’d gotten used to the occasional insight into Jackson’s mind, at the glimpses at the pool of fear contained within, deep and possessing a strong downward current.

Danny’d fancied himself an island in the middle of it. Jackson’s refuge when needed.

Apparently the _haole_ doesn’t require “dry land.” At least not his.

Danny snorts. Shakes his head clear of impending extraneous analogy and refocuses on reality. On something other than the irritation that nudges him toward social retreat.

Staring at the tinted window of the driver’s side, Danny reminds himself that Stiles appears to be in a similar situation.

Pocketing his phone, Danny ducks back into the car, tosses the juice boxes and donuts into Stiles’ lap. There’s a huff of laughter and a low ‘this is why everyone loves you,’ that strokes over the tension in Danny’s shoulders. He smiles.

Then tries not to notice when Stiles doesn’t smile back.

 

* * *

 

Getting a hotel room wasn’t in the plan.

Driving until midnight wasn’t either.

Realizing that his “plan” consisted of escaping south until Stiles exuded normal anxiety instead of the tense panicky sort, and nothing beyond that goal leaves Danny’s emotions off balance. Tipping toward self-targeted annoyance.

He smooths his frown out when the hotel clerk hands back his credit card along with two room keys. Pocketing one cardkey, Danny thanks the woman and then turns to Stiles, hands over the matching card. Widens his eyes when Stiles’ face flits through a couple of expressions before settling on a smirk. The cracked dryness of the man’s lips turns the twist of his mouth into an acceptable form of cruelty. For the moment. 

Once in the room Stiles flops down on the queen-size bed. Splays his limbs out and lifts his head to survey the small amount of space Danny was willing to pay for. The man’s eyebrows crinkle as his head tilts into a painful looking angle. “So, where’re you sleeping?”

“That’s funny.” Sliding between the dresser and the bed, knees knocking against Stiles’ legs as he does, Danny keeps his tone light and dry, “You’re showering before bed. If I come back and find you asleep I’m dumping water on you.”

Stiles doesn’t roll his eyes, though he does toss his head and make a vaguely rude noise. “What’s the point of that? Not like we have clothes to change into, just going to get the day’s dirt on again before—oh God, do you want us to sleep naked? Is that your thing?”

Standing in the bathroom doorway, Danny strips off his shirt, moves to unbuckle his belt. Shutting down a conversation after hours of silence isn’t what he wants. But he’s also not in the mood to be insulted or teased. “How about you call your Dad instead of calling me a creeper.”

A hand is flipped at him, meant to shoo him into the bathroom, “Already did that at the gas station.”

Danny waits. Lets the pressure of his expectance grow until Stiles jerks out more words. “Don’t stare at me. He wasn’t amused but as long as we head back soon he’s not about to send anyone after us. Not with you being the trustworthy Mahealani boy.”

Smiling, Danny shrugs and drops his pants, tosses them to the bed. “That’s good at least.”

“You could have turned around.” The remark stops Danny short. He steps backward out of the bathroom, levels Stiles with a look he reserves for Jackson when he’s at his most neurotic. Just like with his best friend, the expression flattens Stiles out. He goes more solid, steadier.

Satisfied with the result, Danny reenters the bathroom to start his shower. 

He leaves the door open.

 

* * *

 

It turns out that Stiles is a migrator in his sleep.

Danny isn’t surprised.

He’s elbowed three times and kicked once before he abandons personal space for self-preservation and rolls over to drape himself diagonal over Stiles’ back.

Tucking his nose against Stiles’ shoulder, Danny rubs solid lines over huffing ribs until Stiles’ breathing goes regular and soft, his limbs calm under Danny’s bulk.

Danny allows one hand to curl over a bicep, the other to slide down and edge fingers under the elastic of Stiles’ boxer-briefs.

When he wakes to early morning light filtering through thin curtains his hand has pushed further under faded material to grip a hipbone and his head is in the middle of Stiles’ back. A mumbled ‘Stop blinking, your lashes are tickling me’ sends his eyebrows up but he does as told.

Sleep is easy to find again.

 

* * *

 

Headed back home to Beacon Hills Stiles is a contained mass of aborted movements and soft-spoken jokes.

Not normal.

But better.

Danny counts the hours as time well spent.

 

* * *

 

Danny spends the week of finals trying to convince Jackson that leaving is the wrong choice. That it’s a reaction to the Lazarus syndrome. Being dead, certifiably dead, and then alive again isn’t normal. It taints a person, marks them. It’s to be expected that he’s suffering from post-traumatic stress. Leaving the only emotional support he has isn’t going to help him recover.

Danny isn’t successful.

Jackson’s bedroom feels empty.

Throat tight around protests, Danny watches as Jackson frowns at him, snide attitude in place on his face but weak in his tone. “I know what I’m doing.”

His voice sounds hollow the same way it does whenever he cracks open enough to let Danny see there’s more to his personality than the anger and snobbery their classmates get or the lust, cheap laughs, and pieces of kindness that he gives to Lydia. What Danny’s seeing now is confusing.

The way Jackson flinches out bits of fear, his eyes going wet and wide, then narrow and hard, the way he drifts off in conversation to stare at the floor, the wall, through Danny, it all leads to a sense of _layers_ in Jackson’s motivation.

There’s more sending him away than his death.

Instinctive knowledge isn’t a comfort for Danny; he isn’t in the habit of relying on baser functions. “Your parents are okay with this?”

“They aren’t my parents.” Light strikes Jackson’s irises as he steps forward, sending his eyes into a flash of blue that’s odd in its clarity. The distraction is lost as Jackson attempts to puff up his presence to intimidate Danny into silence. “So their opinion doesn’t matter.”

Jackson turns away, jerks his head into the palm of one hand. Rubbing at his temple he shoulders his bag. When he turns back around he squares off against Danny. Always combative. The keys to the Porsche dangle from his fist. “Say goodbye, Danny.”

“Let me come with you, you shouldn’t be going out alone, even if you were fine—” At Jackson’s sneer Danny crowds into his personal space. He isn’t the one easily intimidated. “—Cut the bullshit, I’m tired of you brushing me off like I’m a hysterical female. I thought you were dead. You _were_ dead. But no one told me you came back. And I get it, I do, calling your best friend right after an actual full death experience isn’t the first thing a person does. But you didn’t call at all did you. Of course not, not you, not Jackson Whittemore, because he has to hide his pain and pretend nothing has happened. Spares himself and no one else.”

Skin tight and hot, Danny backs up, waits to cool. Jackson’s gaze hovers to the left of his head. His knuckles are white around the strap of his bag, his jaw gritted down, and his body leaning toward the door.

Standing in front of Danny but gone.

Breath caught in his chest, Danny says, “ _A hui hou kakou hoaloha._ ”

He doesn't watch Jackson walk away.

 

* * *

 

Summer is ending when Danny opens his front door to find Stiles standing beyond the light of the porch, hovering on the fringes of shadows. His eyes are damp-bright and his hands are dancing at his sides.

He says, “Run with me.”

Danny nods.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: 
> 
> _A hui hou kakou hoaloha_ \- until we meet again beloved friend  
>  _haole_ \- outsider, foreigner
> 
> If you ever find a translation or use of Hawaiian to be incorrect, please let me know. I'm still learning about the language and am piecing together some of it as I go. All errors are entirely unintentional and I want to fix them rather than repeat them. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! There will be more in this storyline. I have ideas.


End file.
